


On-the-Job Training

by vorpalblades



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorpalblades/pseuds/vorpalblades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When there's a crime committed in the city morgue, it's up to crack detective Donald Schanke to investigate. And his partner, too, he guesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On-the-Job Training

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greer Watson (greerwatson)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts).



> Written for Greerwatson for FKFicFest 2015, who wanted “A police plot, either twisty casefic or day-on-the-job. (Preferably no vampire complications.) If you like, it could be seen from the perspective of someone other than Nick.”
> 
> I’ve never written anything from Schanke’s POV before now. He’s a fun voice to write, and I hope I didn’t screw it up too much.

“Why am I doing the paperwork yet again?” Don asked, frowning at his computer screen. The report was already half finished, but it was the principle of the matter at this point.

Knight had the gall to smile. “You volunteered, remember? Something about how atrocious my typing skills are.”

“I did?” Don said, though as he did so, he vaguely remembered bringing up Knight’s hunt-and-peck technique in the car on the way back to the station. Knight had said something, he couldn't remember what, and then... Don had suddenly offered to take on the report. “Yeah, I did. And I’m right, too. I can’t believe you got through university and the academy without a typing course or something.”

That wiped the smile off Knight’s face. “I’m still working on it, okay? At least we only have to hit the print button now. It was terrible having to hand-write all of the forms. In triplicate.” Knight’s voice was unnecessarily bitter, if you asked Don. It’s not like he was one of those poor shmucks who didn’t even have typewriters.

“Knight. Schanke.” They both looked up to see Stonetree beckoning them from his office door, his face grim. “My office.”

Don hit the save button on his report – he’d learned the hard way why this was so important – before following Knight into the Captain’s office, shutting the door behind him. 

Stonetree barely waited for the latch to click. “I need you two at the coroners’ office.”

“Sir, we’re still finishing up our work from the Robard case,” Knight stated, and it took everything Don had not to roll his eyes. Right, _we_.

“I know, but we’ve got a new case, and I need detectives on it who I know will do good work while keeping their mouths shut.”

“Wait, the body is already at the morgue?” Don asked.

“No, the crime scene.”

There was no missing the way Knight tensed up, and Don didn’t blame him. His first thought was of Natalie too. Neither of them hesitated in leaving the office, grabbing their things and booking it for the Caddy.

*

Don couldn’t deny the sense of relief that washed over him when they arrived at the morgue and found Natalie and Grace, alive and well, pacing impatiently in the hallway outside the lab. He noticed Nick relax too, before they both seemed to realize that the ladies waiting outside meant bad things were probably waiting inside.

Nat didn’t even wait, just pointed at the swinging doors and said, “In the fridge.”

The scene that greeted them in the coroner’s walk-in refrigerator was grizzly, and Don thanked his lucky stars that Myra’s new diet plan had stopped him from eating before heading in for his shift. Even Knight looked green behind the gills.

“It was like this when we got back from our meal break,” Nat said from behind him, but Don couldn’t take his eyes from the gore that practically covered the metal surfaces of the fridge. “I called the precinct immediately.”

“It’s a damn Jackson Pollock painting in here,” Don observed. He looked up; yep, there was even blood on the ceiling.

“The bodies in the drawers are probably unaffected, but we didn’t want to check and mess up the scene,” Nat added. “There were two bodies on the floor, though.”

“Three,” Grace corrected. “One was brought in right before we left. I had them roll it right in, with the plan that we’d get to it right after lunch.” She paused, looking around at the bloody pieces now scattered throughout the cold storage. “Worst decision ever, I guess.”

That seemed to do it for Knight, because he quickly turned away and hurried away to the other side of the lab, Natalie hot on his heels. It still amazed Don that a man with such an aversion to the sight of blood got into Homicide. Then again, looking around at the aftermath of what was clearly a body blown up from the inside, he wasn’t entirely sure he could blame the guy.

*

“You’re telling me there’s no record of this third corpse at all?” Don demanded.

Grace looked distraught. “I put all of the intake paperwork in with the body. It’s…” She trailed off, gesturing to the sodden mess. If any of the forms were still intact, they’d be too messy to actually read.

Knight was across the lab on his phone, and Don could tell by the look on his face that the call was not going well. Sure enough, Knight slammed his phone shut, glaring at it. “Dispatch checked with the other precincts. No one has any cases where a victim was sent here.”

“So we’ve got bupkiss,” Don said. “Just great.” There was nothing he hated more than cases with no leads, and this was already shaping up to be a doozy.

“Way I see it, this was for one of two reasons,” Knight said. “Someone didn’t want that mystery body examined, or –"

“Or they were hoping this would destroy a different one,” Natalie finished for him.

Don resisted the urge to curse. This was getting complicated and fast. Too many “could be”s were making themselves known, and he mentally ran through what none of them have brought up yet. Who had the mystery body been? Which cases would be affected by the destruction in the morgue? Who brought in – 

“Grace,” he asked, wheels turning. “The guy who dropped off the bomb in disguise. Did you know him?”

“No,” she said slowly, drawing it out as she considered his question. “Even asked. He said he was new.”

“Think you’d recognize him again?”

For the first time since he and Knight had walked in, Grace smiled. “Do you one better. How quickly can I talk to one of the sketch artists?”

*

The establishment of a lead already made Don feel better, and it definitely helped that it had been his idea. Don’t get him wrong, he liked being partnered with Knight – the commendations that started rolling in when they’d been first shackled together were a definitely plus – but sometimes it got old being overshadowed by Toronto’s Wonder Boy. Don felt that sometimes people forgot that he was a detective too, who worked hard to get there he was.

The shiny new police sketch in his hand was a nice reminder that yes, Don Schanke knew what the hell he was doing.

Sticking with Stonetree’s wishes to keep things from becoming a media circus, they couldn’t distribute the sketch like they normally would. Instead, Knight went to some of the local hospitals to see if anyone recognized the guy Grace had described.

And Don was trudging through thousands of mugshots on the very slim chance that one might be a match. Which apparently he’d volunteered for. Again.

He was in the midst of hour three when Knight marched back in and dropped a fresh cup of coffee next to Don’s hand. “Tell me you’ve had better luck.”

“Depends,” Don said, keeping his eyes on his screen and clicking through a few more faces. “By ‘luck,’ do you mean ‘did I find him?’ Because if you did, no, I have not had any luck at all. All I’ve managed to do is eliminate about half of the mid-thirties, blond, stick-thin men in the system.”

“Just another, what, thousand to go, then?” 

Don groaned. “They’re all starting to blur together. One big blob of blonds.” He glanced up at the clock and cringed. No wonder he was having trouble focusing; his shift was over an hour ago. “Let’s call it. Sun will be up soon, and I don’t want to deal with your complaining if you get so much as a tan line.”

Knight frowned but didn’t argue. Don knew it was killing the guy that they didn’t have a named suspect yet. The guy always had to get his man – if it wasn’t for his damn sun allergy, Don knew Knight would be a Mountie instead. He allowed himself a small smile as he gathered his things to leave, imagining Knight in one of those dorky hats. Or better yet, on a horse.

*

The next night, Don found himself back at his desk, sorting through the remaining mugshots. So much for holding out hope that the guy had a bit of a conscience and had turned himself in during the day shift.

Knight, on the other hand, was looking into the cases relating to the two other bodies in the morgue fridge. Natalie had brought over her files, and together they were figuring out if there was any reason the body bomb was meant for one of them.

Don clicked through more faces, resolute that he’d look at 20 more and then break for a coffee run, when one caught his attention. Eyes, nose, make the hair a little bit longer… “Got him!” Knight rushed around the desks to get a look at his computer screen while Don read out the details. “Marcus Barrette. Former EMT with a bit of an anger issue. Booked on aggravated assault four years ago, again two years ago, and just missed a conviction last year due to sloppy evidence…” He looked at that line closer. “…by the 53rd Division. Thanks a lot, morons.”

“Good job, Schank,” Nick said, as he clapped Don on the shoulder, probably a little harder than he intended because ow. “Last known address?”

“Printing it now,” Don stated, clicking the button. 

“Guys,” Nat interrupted, her own file still in her hand. “What was his name again?” Don told her, and she pointed at the sheet. “The second body, Frank DuCarte. Survived by his wife, Ellen. Three guesses what her maiden name is.”

*

The address on file for Marcus Barrette lead them a multi-story apartment building that had Don crossing his fingers for an elevator.

Knight parked his car across the street, and together they made their way toward the front entrance. Don found Barrette’s name on the apartment directory board – seventh floor, there had _better_ be an elevator, damn it – and they waited for another tenant to step out and allow them entrance.

Don smiled when he saw the illuminated button board in the lobby and kept it until they’d ridden up to Barrette’s floor, glad for the little triumphs life gave him sometimes. The seventh floor hall was empty when the elevator doors opened, and he and Knight quietly made their way to Barrette’s apartment. Don couldn’t hear anything at the door, and judging by the look on Knight’s face, he couldn’t either. Nothing else to do but knock.

Don raised his fist, ready to do just that, when the ping of the elevator distracted him. He glanced down the length of the hallway back toward the lift, and out stepped their person of interest, bogged down by several large shopping bags. The guy froze when he saw them standing in front of his door.

_Got you_ , thought Don.

“Marcus Barrette?” Knight asked, and Don had just enough time to grumble, “Oh, please don’t run,” before the guy dropped his bags,spilling bottles of cleaning supplies everywhere, and spun back into the elevator.

Don swore, and they both rushed at the lift but were too late to catch the sliding doors. Don slammed his open palm against the seam where they met. “You traitor,” he huffed, turning on the spot to find the nearest set of stairs and hustling toward the closest sign.

“I’m going for a fire escape,” Knight yelled over his shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction. Don watched long enough to see him disappear around a corner, then he slammed open the door to the stairs and started the trek down, knowing there was no way he or Knight would beat the elevator.

The lobby was predictably empty and quiet when Don made it to the ground floor, and he channeled the last of his strength to burst through the front door. He looked around, listening for the sound of footsteps running away, and caught a flash of movement to his right. It was definitely Marcus, his lead too great to beat as he got ready to round the corner of the building. Don was reaching for his phone, all set to call in dispatch to get back-up from the nearest black-and-white unit, when there was an unholy screech of scraping metal and something landing on his fleeing perp, knocking him to the pavement.

It took a few moments for Don to realize the “something” was his partner.

“Are you kidding me?” Don yelled at Knight. “Please tell me you didn’t just jump from the fire escape.” He looked up; the damn ladder wasn’t even fully extended. It was at least a story-high fall.

Nick stood up and brushed himself off, completely nonchalant like he hadn’t just risked breaking his damn neck with that stunt. “I had to do something,” he said, gesturing to Barrette who laid groaning on the ground. “He was about to get away.”

_Always gets his man,_ Don reminded himself. 

*

The drive back to the precinct was atrocious. Once Barrette – cuffed, Mirandized, and seated in the back of Nick’s car – shook off the shock of being _landed on_ , he spent the entire drive cursing and screaming nonsense at the top of his lungs.

There were still 76 very loud bottles of beer on the wall when they finally made it back to the station. “Getting started early on that insanity plea,” Don said. Knight looked just about ready to strangle the guy in order to get some peace.

They drew looks as they marched Barrette through the precinct toward booking. His screaming had reached a fever pitch, and he had stopped trying to make sense at all, just screeched and railed and thrashed against the holds Don and Nick had on either of his arms.

Until he went completely limp, a mass of screaming dead weight that they now had to drag to the destination.

“Oh, the boys in the cells are going to _love_ you,” Don told Marcus as he readjusted his grip under the guy’s arm.

Marcus just kept yelling.

*

An hour later, the forensics team sent to Barrette’s apartment reported back that they’d found an absolute disaster when they had entered what was probably Barrette’s workroom. “Bomb materials and whatever was left over of the guy he’d hollowed out to use as the casing,” Don told Knight. “Cline said he would, and I quote, ‘have nightmares about this one.’ That’s totally going in the report.”

The final piece of the puzzle came when Barrette’s sister, the widowed Mrs. Ellen DuCarte, arrived to make her statement. “He hated his apartment,” she whispered shakily, tears welling in her eyes. “Complained about everything, especially his next-door neighbor. But as an ex-felon, he couldn’t find many other places to live, you know? He begged to live with us, but Frank said no. Repeatedly.” She paused to wipe her eyes with the tissue Nick handed her. “Frank’s death…looked like an accident. A fall. They were just going to look into… did he really kill someone else just to cover his tracks?”

Don made a mental note to check on the next-door neighbor. Something told him that was their mystery third corpse. “Mrs. DuCarte,” he started, “is there a reason why your brother has been screaming since we arrested him?”

She ducked her head but Don still caught the look of exasperation that overtook the sadness on her face. “He’s done that since we were kids. Whenever he was in trouble, he’d scream until our parents just let him go to shut him up. Did the same whenever he was disciplined at work, too. He thinks it gets him out of everything.”

So that was that. Now all that was left was writing up the report.

Which Don found himself typing. Again.

“Why?” he asked, taking his hands off the keyboard and glaring at his partner across the desks. “Why am I doing this yet again?”

Nick shrugged. “All in a day’s work?”

“Yeah, sure, Dudley Do-Right,” Don mocked, and hit print, smiling.


End file.
